2 Our fathers, where are they,

With all they called their own?

Their joys, and griefs, and hopes, and cares,
And wealth, and honor gone.

3 There, where the fathers lie,
Must all the children dwell;
Nor other heritage possess,
But such a gloomy cell.

4 God of our fathers, hear,

Thou everlasting Friend!
While we, as on life's utmost verge,

Our souls to thee commend.

5 Of all the pious dead

May we the footsteps trace,
Till with them in the land of light
We dwell before thy face.

500

C. M.

H. K. WHITE.

Journeying through Death to Life.

1 THROUGH sorrow's night, and danger's path, Amid the deepening gloom,

We, soldiers of a heavenly King,

Are marching to the tomb.

2 There, when the turmoil is no more,
And all our powers decay,

Our cold remains in solitude
Shall sleep the years away.

3 Our labors done, securely laid
In this our last retreat,
Unheeded, o'er our silent dust
The storms of life shall beat.

4 Yet not thus lifeless, thus inane,

The vital spark shall lie;

For o'er life's wreck that spark shall rise,
To seek its kindred sky.

501

C. M.

WATTS.

Death and Eternity.

1 MY thoughts, that often mount the skies,
Go search the world beneath,
Where Nature all in ruin lies,

And owns her sovereign, Death.

2 The tyrant! how he triumphs here!
His trophies spread around!
And heaps of dust and bones appear
Through all the hollow ground.

3 But where the souls, those deathless things, That left their dying clay?

My thoughts, now stretch out all your wings, And trace eternity.

4 Some hearty friend shall drop his tear On our dry bones, and say,

"These once were strong as mine appear,
And mine must be as they."

5 Thus shall our mouldering members teach
What now our senses learn;
For dust and ashes loudest preach
Man's infinite concern.

396

502

11s M.

EPISCOPAL COL.

"I would not live alway." Job vii. 16.

1 I WOULD not live alway; I ask not to stay Where storm after storm rises dark o'er the way; I would not live alway, thus fettered by sin, Temptation without, and corruption within.

2 I would not live alway; no-welcome the tomb;

Since Jesus has lain there, I dread not its gloom; There sweet be my rest, till he bid me arise, To hail him in triumph descending the skies. 3 Who, who would live alway, away from his God, Away from yon heaven, that blissful abode? Where the rivers of pleasure flow o'er the bright plains,

And the noontide of glory eternally reigns; 4 Where the saints of all ages in harmony meet, Their Savior and brethren transported to greet; While the anthems of rapture unceasingly roll, And the smile of the Lord is the feast of the soul.

503

L. M.

LOGAN.

The Christian summoned to depart.

1 THE hour of my departure's come;
I hear the voice that calls me home;
At last, O Lord, let trouble cease,
And let thy servant die in peace.

2 The race appointed I have run;
The combat's o'er, the prize is won;
And now my witness is on high,
And now my record's in the sky.

3 I leave the world without a tear,
Save for the friends I held so dear;
To heal their sorrows, Lord, descend,
And to the friendless prove a Friend.
4 I come, I come; at thy command,
I give my spirit to thy hand;
Stretch forth thine everlasting arms,
And shield me in the last alarms.

5 The hour of my departure's come;
I hear the voice that calls me home;
Now, O my God, let trouble cease,
Now let thy servant die in peace.

504

7s M.

POPE.

The dying Christian to his Soul.

1 VITAL spark of heavenly flame,
Quit, O quit this mortal frame :
Trembling, hoping, lingering, flying,
O the pain, the bliss of dying!
Cease, fond nature, cease thy strife,
And let me languish into life.

2 Hark! they whisper; angels say,
"Sister spirit, come away.”
What is this absorbs me quite,
Steals my senses, shuts my sight,
Drowns my spirits, draws my breath?
Tell me, my soul, can this be death?

3 The world recedes; it disappears;
Heaven opens on my eyes; my ears

With sounds seraphic ring;

Lend, lend your wings; I mount, I fly;
O grave, where is thy victory?

O death, where is thy sting?

505

C. M.

DODDRIDGE.

God the Soul's Support in Extremity.

1 MY soul, the awful hour will come; Apace it hasteth on,

To bear this body to the tomb,

And thee to scenes unknown.

2 Whence, in that hour, shall I receive
A cordial for my pain,

When, if earth's monarchs were my friends,
Those friends would weep in vain ?

3 Great King of nature and of grace,
To thee my spirit flies,
And opens all its deep distress
Before thy pitying eyes.

4 All its desires to thee are known,
And every secret fear,

The meaning of each broken groan
Well noticed by thine ear.

5 0, fix me, by that mighty power
Which to such love belongs,

Where darkness veils the eye no more,
And groans are changed to songs.

399